


Like That

by Kangofu_CB



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, I'm new here don't hurt me, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, also some kinky metal arm things?, canon compliant to literally nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 11:27:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14519526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: Post mission - Clint and Bucky blowing off steam, in the steamiest way.  Also Clint might have a small kink.  Maybe.  Just a little bit.





	Like That

**Author's Note:**

> I am.... deeply unashamed and not at all regretful for writing this. Let's start there.
> 
> But on that note, I am new to this fandom AND this ship, and I'm having a LOT of fun reading everything and learning the characters and writing all sorts of things I'm not quite ready to post yet. But, as I said, I'm still learning, so if I've outrageously missed the mark, let me know (but kindly? I'm sensitive). 
> 
> Anyway I'm now Winterhawk trash and enjoying every minute of it. 
> 
> Have some kinky smut in return for this ship existing.

Clint panted, face on his forearms and sweat running down his spine.  It could just be post-mission adrenaline. It could. That’s what he’d been telling himself for weeks now, ever since he’d started this- this  _ thing _ with Barnes.  

 

And Clint could be a dumbass - he was a human car wreck, let’s be real - but even he couldn’t lie to himself forever.

 

Especially not with Nat giving him that  _ look _ , the one she reserved for when she thought he was being both especially dumb and annoyingly cute.  Like a precocious puppy, who’d managed to do something right for once. But by accident.

 

It was, in fact, the look she’d given him just a half hour ago, when he’d sauntered off the quinjet behind Barnes, casual as you please, as though the two of them hadn’t exchanged their own significant look across the back of the plane before it landed.  The look that said ‘my place or yours’, even though they both knew it would be Clint’s place.

 

It was always Clint’s place, because Clint always passed out afterwards, and Barnes always left.

 

Clint was barely out of the shower before the other man had slipped silently through the front door - Clint had asked Jarvis to give Barnes access a couple of weeks ago, and that should have been his first clue that he was in over his head - hair still damp from his own shower.  Clint had still been wearing the towel he’d wrapped around his waist after the shower, although he’d thought, briefly, about putting pants on before deciding it wasn’t worth the bother.

 

Barnes had put on pants and that was it, so it seemed about equal.  Clint hadn’t asked if Barnes felt weird about wandering the tower in sweatpants so old they might have predated Clint- ok they weren’t older than Clint but they  _ might _ be older than Wanda, and they were definitely older than Vision - that hung low in all the right places, because if he’d cared, he wouldn’t have done it.  And he’d come to Clint’s room dressed like that and-

 

Well, now they were in his room, on his bed, and the sweatpants and towel were long since abandoned and Barnes was pressing hot, sharp kisses along his shoulders and Clint had long since ceased caring if or what the rest of the team knew or thought about their arrangement.  Mostly he cared about Barnes’s hands on his bare skin and the brush of his cock against Clint’s thighs and the fact that he was slowly going out of his goddamn mind.

 

Cool metal fingers traced a path down his spine and Clint sucked a breath in through his teeth, swallowing down the sound he  _ wanted _ to make. 

 

It was just a hand for chrissake, but Clint was fucked in the head.  A walking, talking human disaster who specialized in poor decision making. 

 

The arm got varying reactions.  Steve tried  _ not _ to look at it was much as possible.  The guilt was written plain as day on his face every time he did, so he walked to Barnes’ right and fought on his right, and tried not to flinch when Barnes wore sleeveless shirts in the summer.  Stark, on the other hand, wouldn’t fucking  _ stop _ looking at the arm.  It was there behind his eyes, the way he wanted to take it apart and figure out how it worked and examine it with whatever gadgets he could get his hands on.  Both of them made Barnes uncomfortable, but not enough to cover the arm up. Sam tended to treat it like a prosthetic. Nat ignored it completely in that way she had of ignoring things while pretending not to ignore them. Clint wasn’t sure Barnes had noticed.

 

Clint always just thought of it as Barnes’s arm.  It wasn’t a prosthetic - Barnes had complete control of it, it was hardwired into his goddamn brain or something, so Clint treated it the same way Barnes did.  Like a fuckin’ arm. He touched it if touching it seemed warranted, and he’d shoved it out of his hair, and he’d modified a bow for Barnes so that the draw was up to the pull of the arm, and generally speaking just treated it like what it was.

 

He was pretty sure that’s why Barnes had warmed up to him as fast as he did.  Clint never hesitated to touch it (and nor did he avoid it) but he wasn’t weird about it either.  Except that one time he’d punched Barnes in the arm, half-jesting, during one of their barb-filled banter matches over some dumb movie and nearly broken his fingers.  Barnes had laughed for five solid minutes of Clint’s curse-filled rant.

 

Then they had started having sex and Clint started realizing he had a  _ thing _ for the arm.

 

Today Barnes had thrown a fucking motorcycle  _ through _ a moving car full of villains with the arm, and Clint was pretty sure that wasn’t supposed to be as hot as it had seemed at the time.  Clint had paused, mid-draw, to watch the display of brutal, efficient, hot as  _ fuck _ ass-kicking.  Then Nat had made a little amused sound over the comms, and he’d turned back to what he was supposed to be doing, which was staying alive and shooting bad guys.  

 

Fucking stupid brain.

 

The fingers trailed lower and Clint continued panting, shifting on his knees so they were a little wider - for balance, he told himself, and not for begging. Well.  Mostly not for begging, because now Bucky’s hand was sliding past his spine to his ass, fingertips grazing the edge of his hip, and Clint had to choke back another needy sound he didn’t want to let escape.

 

“You like the arm?” Bucky said, and it was phrased like a question that he already knew the answer to.

 

Clint swallowed hard.  “It’s your arm, Buck. I like most everything about you.”  

 

The other man made a small, amused sound in the back of his throat, something warm and lust-filled, and Clint groaned a little.

 

“Yeah, but you really like the arm,” Bucky said, and there was a hint of self-satisfaction mixed in with the arousal this time.

 

Clint opened his mouth to respond, but Bucky shifted, and then his thumb was brushing against his perineum and then up to his ass and it was the  _ metal thumb, _ slick with lube, and whatever came out of Clint’s mouth was a garbled mess, whiny and needy and seven shades of please-sir-can-I-have-some-more, and later,  _ later _ , Clint was going to be humiliated it had escaped his throat.

 

Bucky’s mouth was hot on his throat, sucking along the edge of his shoulder, and he pressed, gently, so fucking gently and maybe no one but Clint knew how gentle the other man could be, inside of him and Clint decided he was never going to be embarrassed again because holy fuck if it got him what he wanted who gave a fuck.  It wasn’t like he had a robot arm thing. He’d never jacked off to thoughts of the Iron Man suit. It was just Bucky and Bucky’s arm, and the fact that he’d once watched him rip a killer robot’s head off with the hand without even looking and ok maybe he had a little bit more of a thing for the hand than he’d thought. Maybe it was just part of the  _ Bucky _ thing he’d been pretending he didn’t have.

 

He barely even noticed that he’d stopped calling him Barnes inside his head.

 

“Fuck,” Clint breathed, incapable of anything more coherent.

 

“I’d like to,” and Bucky sounded regretful, almost, “but I’m kinda worried about the articulation of the joints.”

 

And yeah, ok, that was a fair point, Clint realized vaguely.  That could be uncomfortable. It was difficult to be sure, what with the way Bucky was rocking the tip of his thumb in and out of Clint’s body.  Linear thought was a little inhibited. He made another of the needy, whiny noises.

 

Bucky moaned in response, low in his throat.

 

He moved again, the thumb sliding away, and the sound Clint made that time was all protesting and indignant, but then Bucky was back, this time with his right hand, sliding two fingers inside of him and Clint rocked back his approval, letting the stretch and burn wipe away the vague sense of disappointment he felt.  Then Bucky crooked his fingers and Clint didn’t feel anything except burning lust and mindless need. Another finger and a few more perfunctory minutes of stretching that Clint didn’t really need - they’d been doing this for weeks and it hadn’t been his first rodeo anyway - and Bucky was sliding in slow, smooth strokes deep inside of him.

 

“Jesus fuck, Bucky,” Clint gasped, as the other man pulled back and slammed home, forceful and sure, pretty lights sparking behind Clint’s eyes as he did so.

 

Bucky hummed an agreement, repeating the motion, and Clint gave himself over to the rhythm of it, his hands tangled in the bedsheets and resisting the urge to touch himself.  The longer he didn’t, the longer this would last, and he never wanted it to end. Bucky had more stamina than him, by far, because Clint was old and Bucky was a fucking supersoldier, and Clint would have laughed at the unintentional pun if he’d had the breath for it.

 

Clint didn’t think he was going to be able to resist long, though, the memory of Bucky’s voice and the touch and the fact that he was surrounded by the smell and sound of Bucky Barnes fucking his brains out meant he wasn’t gonna last long no matter what he did.

 

Then Bucky tugged his shoulders, pulling him nearly upright to brace himself on the headboard, and wow did that change the angle, Bucky’s cock dragging over his prostate in light, almost teasing touches that let him ride the edge of orgasm in brain-numbing bliss.  Bucky gripped Clint’s hip with his right hand to steady himself, and slid his left hand around his stomach, resting at his navel, just above where Clint’s cock was bobbing in time with the steady rhythm Bucky had built up. 

 

“You want me to touch you?” Bucky asked, his voice a low growl, and Clint felt a jolt of arousal straight to his cock, making it twitch.  His breath caught in a hitch of pure, unadulterated  _ want _ .

 

“Fuck,” Clint groaned, his head falling back against Bucky’s shoulder.

 

“Is that a yes?”  The tone this time was amused again, and Clint turned his head to nip at Bucky’s ear.

 

“It’s a fuck yes, and you know it,” he managed.

 

Bucky moved again and Clint dragged his head off of Bucky’s shoulder to watch as his hand - it was still the fucking metal head, Clint’s brain was going to melt out of his goddamn ears - slid lower.  Rather than gripping it in his fist - and even Clint’s lust-soaked brain recognized the ouch that might result from that - he shifted his fingers until the tips were pressed all around Clint’s cock, at the base, and dragged them upwards, along the shaft and across the head.

 

Clint bucked into the touch, unable to help himself, groaning loudly.

 

“You really fuckin’ like the hand,” Bucky chuckled.

 

“Fuck you, Barnes,” Clint ground out.

 

“Already am, sweetheart,” Bucky retorted, and repeated the same motion before Clint could respond.

 

When Clint bucked again, Bucky wrapped his arm more securely around his waist, fucking him in hard, fast strokes, both of them panting now, words lost.  Bucky got in one last stroke of Clint’s cock and that was it -  _ super-fucking-nova _ as Clint’s brain blasted into about a thousand pieces and he shook and shuddered and babbled god-and-Bucky-only-knew what.  He was only vaguely aware of Bucky’s quiet cursing as his hips stuttered and he lost his rhythm, just thrusting steadily towards his own completion.

 

Clint’s next conscious thought was that his legs were going to give out, even as he slumped over the headboard and gasped for air, Bucky’s forehead resting between his shoulder blades.  Before Clint had a chance to give voice to his concerns, Bucky was moving them both, easing Clint down onto the bed, and pulling away gently, leaving Clint simultaneously spent and empty and aching for more.  The other man padded to the bathroom and Clint heard the sound of water running and the toilet flushing, and he could already feel his mind drifting. The post-mission rush was gone, and post-coitus coma was setting in.  Bucky wandered back in with a wet cloth and gave Clint a quick wipe, before reaching up to clean off the headboard, which set Clint to snickering even as his eyes closed.

 

He heard the sound of the washcloth landing in the hamper. The only reason any of Clint’s dirty laundry even ended up in there was because he had to throw it at exactly the right angle to make it in the basket, and the thought that Bucky did the same thing made him smile.  He was nearly asleep with the dopey grin on his face when the mattress shifted behind him, and he felt his face droop. Bucky was leaving. Clint groped behind him to pat, ineffectually, at the other man in what he hoped was an affectionate way. 

 

There was a pause in the movement that almost roused him from his near-sleep, then Bucky was leaning over him, and Clint thought he might have imagined the lips brushing across his temple in the process.

 

He definitely  _ didn’t _ imagine Bucky sliding into bed behind him, his warm, naked body slotting perfectly behind Clint’s, or the sheet being pulled up to both their waists.

 

“Buck?” Clint slurred, confused but not unhappy.

 

“Shut up and sleep, Barton.”

 

Clint could do that.

 

“Kay,” he muttered, adjusting to the sensation of an arm sliding under his neck and Bucky’s breath against his shoulder.  The metal hand settled tentatively on his hip, and Clint reached down to pat it clumsily. “Itsa good hand,” he added, though he wasn’t sure why he felt the need to say so.

 

Bucky snorted into his neck.  “Yeah I think I got the memo about how you feel about my hand, idiot.”  He didn’t sound annoyed though, just warmly pleased.

 

“Don’t kinkshame me, Barnes,” Clint muttered, snuggling further into Bucky’s embrace.

 

“Is there a name for robot hand kinks?  Robotophilia?”

 

Clint kicked ineffectually at him under the sheet.  “Shut up, I hate you.”

 

“You do not,” Bucky said, smugly.  “You love me.”

 

“Yeah that too.  Shut up about it already.”

 

Miraculously, Bucky did, instead reaching out to gently tug his aids out of his ears and place them on the nightstand.  

 

It was a change to their routine Clint could definitely get used to. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ClaraxBarton for the quick beta read! And the enabling. And the blatant push to post this. 
> 
> Also thanks to the margaritas that made this possible. Y'all were awesome. 
> 
> Title from a Bea Miller song - there may come a day when I don't name fics after songs, but today is not that day.
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr if you're so inclined! [Kangofu-cb](https://kangofu-cb.tumblr.com/)


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